


Hooked

by JaneDavitt



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-26
Updated: 2010-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-08 08:15:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneDavitt/pseuds/JaneDavitt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stressed-out Jim takes a break from Vice and hires a hooker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hooked

The room was one, maybe two steps above squalid, Jim decided, his gaze going from a bed slightly rumpled -- shit, it was too much effort to straighten up between johns? -- to curtains very tightly closed. Yeah, no one liked to think someone was watching them get their rocks off. The walls of the hot sheets motel were thin enough that plenty of people would be able to hear the moans of 'yeah, baby, give me more, God, yeah, just like that' but out of sight eavesdroppers didn't count.

Jim planned on being noisy if he wanted to and the hell with it. He needed this. Needed it to stay focused, do his job. It was practically tax-deductible, though he doubted he'd get the hooker to provide him with a receipt.

Jim looked over at the hooker in question. In the dim light of the bar, with blue eyes to stare into and a husky voice promising him enough for Jim to slap the cuffs around wrists if he were on duty, which he so fucking wasn't, the hooker had seemed older. In the harsh light of the overhead, the kid couldn't have been a day over --

"I'm twenty-two." A smile curved lips Jim had been staring at more than the baby blues. Sweet and dirty, that mouth. Just what he wanted. "You were wondering, right?"

The kid -- okay, man -- flicked on a lamp by the bed and Jim automatically reached to the side, found the wall switch, and killed the overhead. Better.

"Maybe," Jim admitted.

"My name's --"

"Don't care." It wouldn't be his real one and even if it were, so what? Why did they need names? "I'm called man with a hundred bucks who wants to get off."

"How about I call you John for short?" the kid countered.

Jim smiled, something he hadn't planned on doing. That was actually kind of witty. "Fine by me, Chief."

"So, John, what do you want? I don't do bondage, not even with regulars, and if you want something on my will do even if it's kinky list, the price goes up."

Mildly intrigued, Jim raised his eyebrows. "So tell me the specials for tonight."

"What and put ideas into your head?" Long, wildly curly hair flew as the man shook his head. "Just tell me and let's get on with it, huh?"

"Listen, kid --"

"Blair."

"Huh?"

"My name's Blair, okay? Once we get started, you can call me Mabel, if you want, but until the clock starts ticking --"

"It already is," Jim told him. "It started when you spilled your drink on me and did such a good job mopping up."

Through the thin paper of the napkin, he'd felt the swift, knowing press of the kid's fingers against a hard-on with its roots in the way Blair had sucked the celery stalk in his Bloody Mary clean of tomato juice.

Blair grinned. "Then we're running out of time. Want to spank me? Role-play? Want a blow job from a first-timer, or to fuck a virgin when it comes to cock? Or do you want quick and --"

"I want hard, fast, dirty," Jim said, the words flat and uncompromising. "No frills, no games. If skin gets bruised, I don't care and this is the kind of place where no one's going to knock down the door if they hear some yelling, so don't hold back."

Blair's eyes narrowed, wariness flashing. Good. Jim liked that the kid had some sense of self-preservation.

"You leave bruises on me and the next john doesn't like them, I'm out good money. You tear my ass up and I'm gonna have to stick to blow jobs for a week and sweat every time I take a dump. It's gonna cost you."

"Relax, Chief," Jim said wearily. Too many memories floating in his head. Young men, younger than Blair, their bodies slashed at, brutalized, their eyes wide with shock, mouths open on a final scream no one walking by had listened to... Catching their killer hadn't muted those screams in his head.

God, being in Vice was getting to him and the veiled attitude from the fuckers in Major Crime, conveying a message that a gay hooker trolling for clients had to expect to get gang-raped and murdered by a self-righteous bunch of freaks on a mission from God hadn't helped. Working with their task force and stopping his fist from finding a home in their faces hadn't been easy.

He pulled out a rubber -- he always used his own -- and tossed it at Blair, who caught it one-handed.

"I'm going to be the one bending over and getting nailed, not you."

Blair's mouth opened, a question about to pop out. Jim shook his head, crossed the room, and put two fingers over Blair's mouth, touching him for the first time.

"Kid -- Blair -- just do me a favor and fuck my brains out, okay? I need it. I need it so fucking bad."

Blair caught his breath, his tongue stroking over that lush, pouting bottom lip, wetting it glossy. "I can do that."

Jim nodded, his hand rising to push through the wealth of Blair's hair and find the shape of his skull, a moment of tenderness before they began.

"So, any more requests?" Blair asked, his voice gentle.

Jim swallowed and then cursed himself for even hesitating; this was his dime, all thousand of them, after all. He met Blair's eyes without flinching.

"Tell me what you want," he said on a whisper. "Let me make it good for you."

He watched Blair get it -- so quick, God, the kid was bright -- and then Blair stepped back, his demeanor flicking from conciliatory to in command.

"I think I want you naked," Blair said coolly. "And you'd better hope that I like what you've got waiting for me under those tight jeans, because I don't stick my dick in anything but the best."

Jim smiled back at him. "You're gonna love fucking me," he promised.

They both were. And maybe, just maybe, if Blair did it right -- and Jim was starting to think that he would, not like the others, not like them at all -- Jim would be at his desk on Monday, not looking for another job in another city.

He was so tired of running away from nightmares painted in blood and screams.

He reached for his belt and Blair's voice stopped him, greedy, thick with lust, just perfect, every syllable. "Take your time. Give me a show."

The last of Jim's reservations slipped away with the slow slither of leather through the loops of denim, replaced by a rush of gratitude. It felt so damn good to trust someone to do their job right.

The way people had trusted him before he'd let his men die in the jungle, in the hot, sweating air and the noisy darkness.

Blair slid into him, nothing but a skim of lube to make the entrance easy, and Jim choked back a moan of pain and longing and then, when Blair slapped his leg in a warning, let it go, let it all out, every sob, every whimper, every guttural curse and every helpless, pitiful fucking tear.

Jim came before Blair did, and felt the kid's small hesitation before he went for it, spilling into latex a few moments later.

When the kid pulled out, disposing of the condom with a careless efficiency, Jim made a move to leave. His ass was throbbing viciously and he felt empty in every sense, but empty was quiet and that was good enough.

Blair stopped him with a hand on Jim's arm. "If I tip you, will you stay a while longer?"

_Game's over,_ Jim wanted to say. _See you around, kid._

He couldn't do it. He was picturing this kid, torn into and hurt and the images were filling the emptiness. No, God, not so soon --

He found himself in Blair's arms, his head buried in the crook of Blair's neck, breathing in sweat and clean skin under it.

"Yeah," Blair whispered. "Stay a while."


End file.
